


Time and Tide.

by TayBartlett9000



Category: Oliver Twist - All Media Types
Genre: Death, Emotional, Family, Farewells, Forgiveness, Friendship, Gen, Grief, Loss, Love, Memories, Past, Regrets, Sadness, Short Story, Time - Freeform, Uncertainty, criminality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 16:28:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14116347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TayBartlett9000/pseuds/TayBartlett9000
Summary: It has been ten years since Fagin met his end at the gallows, and Dodger takes it upon himself to visit the grave side of his old benefactor, in order to say  a final goodbye.





	Time and Tide.

He had avoided this place for ten years. The imposing  sight of the   iron gates had been a constant presence, and yet only now did he dare to cross the threshold of those gates. 

The early  morning chill made it harder for him to open the gate and go within, as his fingers were clumsy with cold. The bolt that held the iron gates closed  was stiff and  unyielding. He struggled with it until it  finally gave way, and he pushed the gates open, entering the cemitary.

The moss between the flag stones crunched beneath his feet as he walked forward, making his way towards the long rows of head stones, intimidated by the oppressive silence.

The young man pulled his   coat closer about his skinny frame and shivered. He was used to the cold now, but its bitter fingers still managed to snake their way into one’s soul, no matter how much clothing a person wore.

He had known all along where the man had been buried, and he had told himself many a time over the years that he would one day make his way out to this lonely patch of ground and visit his grave, but time and circumstance are  great distractions. He had journeyed out this way many a time and with the best intentions, and yet he had always paused with one hand resting upon the gate, unwilling to venture beyond them. Until now, he had always turned away and put the issue out of his mind.  

He moved towards the row of gravestones  situated  at the very back of the cemetary, mapping out the root inside his head, trying to remember where the man had told him to go.

Once he was sure he had arrived at the right stone, he paused, wishing he could turn back but knowing in some small section of his mind that he couldn’t. He stood like a  sentenal at the grave stones, unsure if we wanted to look at the one he had avoided contemplating for a decade, and had hoped he would never have to look at.

“Why that particular grave, mi boy?” the prison undertaker had asked him, with more than a degree of suspicion as he eyed him pensively, “that is very interesting. No one claimed him for three month after the hanging, so we didn’t think he had any family members left. Hardly any of our prisoners did.”

“I’m his nephew,” the young man had lied, surprised by how easily the lie had fallen from his lips. His benefactor had tought him well. He knew how to lie, and lie convincingly.

The man had nodded, accepting the truth of this. He had shuffled his papers and  frowned. “I am sorry, young lad,” he had told him after a very lengthy pause, “I would certainly hate to find out that a relative of mine died ten years ago. But never mind. Nothing we can do about it, ay?”

The young man had offered him only the slightest trace of a smile.

“He was a criminal, by all accounts,” the man had said with a slight  frown, “I wouldn’t like that sort of filth in my family. I bet you’re glad he’s gone, ay?”

The young man had again said nothing, wishing that it was legal to punch someone.

If he was being honest with himself, the young man was somewhat relieved that his benefactor had  released his grip on the mortal world, even if it had been  through something as unpleasant as  a hanging. He knew now from adult experience that he had been a man of dark intent, and  that he hadn’t been above using people to get what he needed or wanted. But the ten year old child in him still shrivelled up inside at the thought. He had lived with the old man long enough to have grown fond of him. Jack Dawkins wasn’t    entirely sure whether or not his fondness had stretched to love, but  friendship between the two had  definitely been reached.

He had  heard that Fagin had gone mad in the end, shrinking away from  human contact and muttering to himself as if desperate to hear the sound of a voice. Jack Dawkins still felt that old twinge of guilt in his stomach for not being at his side during the man’s final moments. He had   neglected Fagin when he had needed him most, choosing his own pride over gratitude for the man who had given him a  roof over his head for five years. He chose to step aside and forget the man who had been his only source of comfort. Fagin had been more than a mere  employer to him. He had been  a father to him, the only person he could look up to and confide in when life confused him. He had  stole for him, had lied for him, and yet he had never thanked him. He had never showed his gratitude towards him.

And now it was too late.

“You’ll be a rich man one day, my dear. A very rich man indeed. One day, you could be the greatest man the world has ever known.”

Those words echoed in Jack’s head as if the old  man was standing at his side, and Jack  Dawkins smiled to himself. The eyes of the now twenty year old man burned with tears suddenly, and he swept the top hat off his head, running his fingers over the fabric.

He began to wander back along the rows of head stones, carefully counting them off and making his way towards the entrance of the cemetary.

As he  approached the gates, he glanced back at the stone baring Fagin’s name and said in a small voice, “well, bye then,  Fagin. I wish you could see me now. Workin the streets I am, I never forgot what you tought me. Thank you, old mate.”

He  paused for a moment. He had come all the way from London.  The least he could do was linger for a few minutes. He began to  walk back towards Fagin’s grave stone and again stood before it, looking directly at the engraved name this time.

“You knew I’d come back, didn’t ya Fagin,”  he said in a louder voice, trying to muster up a laugh but failing miserably. He paused and a frown once again slipped onto his face. “I’m sorry I didn’t come and see you sooner. I  should ave. I hope you   forgive me.” He rubbed at his eyes, unable to quench the tears this time, “and I hope that you’re doin ok up there, wherever you are. I’ll maybe see you one day, perhaps. Your boys are all doin fine as well, think you’ll be glad to know. We all miss you. I turned out alright in the end, thanks to you. You tought me well, old man. Thanks for that.”

He remained silent for a moment.

“I wish it hadn’t ended this way,” he told Fagin quietly, a crack in his voice now. “Bloody law.”

Another long pause.

“Well,” he said, “I’ll be off now. I’ll come back, promise.”

He began to walk away again, back towards the entrance.

“Sleep well, Fagin,” he said with a small smile.

And he was gone, a weight in his heart lifting slightly as he closed the iron gates behind him.


End file.
